


What the Devil Taught You (Discontinued)

by BoFont



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Friends, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of Angst, Multi, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-08-07 19:17:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16414328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoFont/pseuds/BoFont
Summary: Two orphans raised by the pious but without faith, two victims with dark halves to lock away: you and Matt Murdock are a match made in Heaven. But when things fall apart, it takes a chance meeting, years later, to pull you back together. Some would call it destiny or premonition but you know better. Pain is your teacher and pain is what you know. This is simply another lesson.





	1. Harden Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfic I've posted on here and as such, I would really appreciate any comments (negative or otherwise) to help me iron out the kinks in my writing so I can deliver the most angsty, sexy, frustrating piece possible! 
> 
> Some things to note: the MC is a) Matt's "friend" from childhood and b) a woman of color with an OC best friend who is also a woman of color. She is ambiguously brown, ya'll, and her appearance beyond that is up to you. Additionally, I find the "Y/N" thing jarring and awkward so any mention of her name will be minimal and vague. 
> 
> Matt Murdock is a hard character to write; he's got layers like an avocado-shaped onion. So if any of his dialogue or quirks seem off, please don't hesitate to tell me! 
> 
> Anyway, that's all, folks! Thanks for taking the time to read!

**October 2008**

“Matt-fucking-Murdock,” you breathe.

A moment passes when the roaring music that fills the room, already so heavy with the breath and sweat and musk of hundreds of club-goers, stops. Your eyes cut through the swaying bodies and find him like he’s your beacon. Neon lights, constantly shifting, color over his tousled hair and the wideness of his grin in shades of red and yellow and green. The warmth in your chest plunges to your gut and that pleasant buzz of alcohol is gone as if it’d never been there at all. A sensation not unlike being drenched in cold water overcomes you when you see that beautiful woman grinding back against him. He’s gripping her by the hips and -

“Hey!" Tamara shouts near your ear as she touches your shoulder from behind you, "What's wrong?”

When you tear your eyes away, you’re yanked back into the real world and your clarity returns. Tami’s eyes, a brown several shades lighter than her skin, lock with yours when you turn to face her.

If it was anyone else standing so close to you, grasping for your hand and looking at you with such worry, you would brush off your feelings with learned ease. But Tami knows everything about you. Well, not _everything_ , but everything you would ever be willing to share with another person. You’ll tell her who had made your night come to a screeching halt… after a drink. 

There’s no point in trying to speak, not when the noise is so overwhelming now. You mouth “bar” and point somewhere in its general direction. Your feet are already carrying you towards the promise of alcohol, the promise of forgetting. You don’t bother checking to see if Tami is following. You know she’s right there behind you.

 

* * *

 

There isn’t a line anymore, somehow, so when you push through the bathroom door, it’s mostly empty. You glance towards the sinks at the three girls reapplying their makeup and gossiping. Their voices are much too loud but it’s not as if they’re sober enough to notice. But who the hell are you to judge when your own vision is swimming?

“You totally zoned out in the middle of the dance floor. You know that, right?” Tami’s arms are crossed and her look of concern has morphed into something like frustration.

“Yeah.”

“Did you see a hot guy? A hot girl? An ex? What was it?”

“All the above.”

Tami’s perfect eyebrows shoot up into her bangs and the sight of her exaggerated surprise makes you snort.

“Be serious for like, two seconds?” She narrows her eyes at you. “And stop making me self-conscious about these bangs. I know they’re awful!”

“Shut up, you look great,” you say, sincerely. With that curvy figure and those big eyes and full lips, Tami really is gorgeous. 

“I’ll look better when I ditch this weave, girl,” she says with a grimace.

“And go _back to black_?” You sing-song.

She throws her head back to laugh, heartily. 

Falling back into the familiar banter, you push Matt Murdock from your mind. You remind yourself of where you are, of who you are. You are a… decent-looking college student with some cash to blow at one of the best nightclubs in the best city in the world. Your hot, popular best friend is here to hook you up with someone equally hot.

Tami’s eyes widen in realization. “Oooh, so you saw your ex with someone else?”

She shoots a look towards the girls, now howling and hanging off each other as if one of them had just told the funniest joke in the world. 

“Tami, really?” You say, amused as she ducks to check under the stalls. When she seems satisfied that the coast is clear she turns back to you, eyes bright with a wild excitement.

“Who’s the ex?”

You bite your lip. His was a story you rushed through. You barely grazed the details of your tumultuous relationship, but it had to have been enough because she has never mentioned him since.

“Matt Murdock,” you say after a pause.

Her eyes widen again and her eyebrows furrow. She’s troubled, not surprised. “Oh,” she responds.

A silence hangs between you and grows louder when the girls finally stumble out of the room.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Tami asks, softly.

“I dunno…” you begin, but your response is cut short when the sound of the bathroom door slamming open rattles your thoughts. 

Before you can turn to see who the hell is barging in, you hear him. Your thoughts scatter like marbles; they roll around inside your skull and leave a sharp pain where they clatter. You’re frozen where you stand, leaned against the wall.

You can’t even focus on what he’s saying. You can’t focus on what the woman with him is saying. All you can do is shut your eyes and drown out the sound of his voice. And then, the voices stop. For a second, you fool yourself into thinking that maybe you were successful.

You glance up at Tami and she’s staring - no, _glaring_ \- over your shoulder. You turn your head to glance at the mirror and he’s there, reflected back at you. 

“Come on, _Mathew_ ,” the beautiful woman purrs. You watch as she leans in to nip at his ear. But Matt isn’t looking in her direction. His head is turned towards the mirror as if he’s meeting your eyes - as if he can see you. Which is impossible, of course.

Still, why is he just standing there instead of ravishing his date, like he clearly intended to just moments ago?

It’s none of your business, you decide. You look back to Tami and reach out to squeeze her hand. When she meets your eyes, you jerk your head towards the door.

You shut your eyes and let her lead you past him, back out into the crowd to disappear.

You don’t look back.


	2. The Lord Takes Away

**May 1996**

You are a lonely child - not just because your family is gone, but because there are no other children your age at St. Agnes.

Most of the orphans are babies or toddlers while a handful are teenagers; the latter have little hope of ever being adopted. You won’t pretend that you do, either; even at ten, you’ve passed the point of desirability. It’s your four-year-old brother, Xavier, who has a chance. With the way the Sisters indulge him, you know he must be especially sought-after.

But Xavier is the only person you have left. The thought that he might be taken away from you causes you physical pain. Still, if he has a chance at a normal childhood - something you never had - you would never deny him that. Maybe suffering is like a scale: the more of it you take, the less of it there is to weigh him down.

So if you must spend your days with no one to play with and no one to truly understand, then you will.

 

* * *

 

After service has ended and you’ve visited Xavier at preschool, all you want to do is sit in your bedroom and stick your nose in the new book you feel knocking around in your backpack.

Just as you reach for the doorknob, you feel a gust of air from behind you. When you whip around, Sister Catherine is walking past you as quickly as her stiff robes will allow; she throws a greeting over her shoulder and rushes towards the end of the hallway.

There is never anything exciting going on at St. Agnes, so your interest is thoroughly piqued. You follow her, sneakily, as she opens the furthest door. She doesn’t move past the threshold and it becomes apparent why when a blood-curdling scream pierces your eardrums.

When you move to peek behind Sister Catherine, you see a dark-haired boy thrashing on the bed. Sister Margaret kneels beside him. She’s brushing back his sweat-soaked hair and shushing him but her attempts at comfort are fruitless. The boy shrieks as if he’s being burned alive. Is this what Hell sounds like?

You imagine how he must be hurting and the tears spring to your eyes, unbidden.

You gently tug at Sister Catherine’s robes and she turns, appearing startled, to find you gazing up at her.

“Sister, what’s wrong with him?” You beg.

She and Sister Margaret exchange a look - it’s some unspoken signal you must be too young to understand. She pulls at the doorknob and the door shuts with an audible click. The boy’s cries, muffled now, still cloud your head. You can’t think of anything else.

Sister Catherine swoops down to grasp your shoulders. Her startlingly green eyes fix on you with sympathy. It’s a look you know well.  

“Matthew is blind,” she says bluntly.

You shiver at the thought. To live in complete darkness…

But you’ve met blind people before and they lead relatively normal lives. Is being blind painful?

“What happened to him?”

She rubs your arms and her thin lips draw together in an exaggerated frown.

“There was an accident some time ago,” she says. “He saved a man’s life but he was blinded.”

You briefly consider why God would punish someone so severely for such an act of heroism. It seems quite unfair. To question God, however, is blasphemy so you push that line of thought from your mind.

“But why is he screaming now?”  

Sister Catherine considers.

“When you’re blind, your other senses have to make up for your lack of sight,” she says carefully. “He’s overwhelmed by everything he hears and smells and feels.”

“How can we help him, Sister?”

She smiles a sad kind of smile and you know her answer: you can’t. But that won’t stop you from trying.

 

* * *

  

You have never been accused of being resigned; which is why it should surprise exactly no one that you’re seated (criss-cross applesauce) at your cracked door, one hand in a bag of chips and the other gripping the spine of your new favorite book. Every few seconds, you glance down the hallway. The time drags on at a glacial speed as you wait for _something_ to happen.

After nearly an hour, Sister Margaret leaves the boy’s room and gently, almost reverently, shuts the door behind her. You watch her back recede as she shuffles away. When you’re certain she’s gone, you abandon your chips and book and scramble down the hallway.

When you reach his door, you pause. You wonder if you should knock, but then, you think the sound might frighten him. You knock softly, anyway, just to be polite, before you open the door and poke your head inside.

He’s not screaming anymore but you see the sheen of tears on his cheeks. His whole body quivers as he gazes up at the ceiling.

“Matthew?” You call out. The floorboards creak as you move inside. “Or, uh, maybe you go by Matt?”

His head snaps in your direction and his eyes dart towards where you stand. From this angle, it almost looks like he _sees_ you. It’s got to be an optical illusion like the ones you saw at that museum exhibit last year.

Your voice shakes as you introduce yourself.

“I’m ten,” you say quietly. “My birthday was actually two weeks ago.”

Matthew blinks up at you, his chest still heaving.

“Sister Catherine said you’re eleven so we’re like, almost the same age.”

Your face heats up and you can _feel_ your ears turning red. Sister Agatha says it’s cute when they do that, but you disagree.

You take a step closer and take it as a good sign when he doesn’t flinch like before.

“My room is down the hall, so I guess that makes us neighbors,” you say, beaming. You’ve learned that when you smile, other people do, too, but you suppose that only really works on the ones who can see. “Usually the rooms are nicer than this but I guess it doesn’t -”

Your teeth clack together when you clamp your mouth shut.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

You feel a little woozy and even though you kind-of just insinuated that the blind kid should get the cruddy room, you feel compelled to ask: “Um, can I sit by you?”

Matthew gives a slight nod, a gesture so subtle that you wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t been holding your breath waiting for it.

His eyes track your movements as you walk to that rickety chair.

You sit for several long, long moments as you scour your brain for something to say.

As the silence grows louder, the twitching in his hands - held so close to his chest - becomes more erratic. He calls out your name and his eyes dart towards the door, to the far wall and back again.

“I’m sorry! I’m right here!” You exclaim, waving your hands… until you realize what you’re doing and drop them to your knees.

His eyes find you again and he visibly relaxes.

Now that you’re getting a good look at him, you notice that his are a deep brown, like chocolate.

Freckles line his cheekbones and button nose like God took a handful of stars and scattered them over his skin. Matthew is cute, you decide. You imagine you’re flushing an even brighter red now.

You realize you’re staring and he grows restless again.

“Um, maybe it would help if you… held my hand?”

Matthew nods and this time, there’s no mistaking it.

You scoot closer and he yelps when the chair legs scrape against the floor.

“Sorry,” you mumble. Matthew reaches his hand towards the edge of the mattress and flexes his fingers. When you place your hand in his, those fingers close around yours like a vice. It almost hurts but you don’t mind.

“You wanna hear a joke?”

He opens his mouth but no words come out, so he tries again.

“Yes,” Matthew says, recoiling at the sound of his own voice. You squeeze his palm and smile.

"Knock, knock.” You begin.

After a pause for dramatic effect, you offer the next lines: “ _who’s there?_ Little old lady.”

You wait for Matthew to speak again.

“Little old lady, who?” He eventually rasps.

You feign surprise and gasp: “I didn’t know you could yodel!”

To your relief, Matthew chuckles. You decide, then, that you will do anything you can to make him laugh again.

In your peripheral, you see a figure approach the doorway and when you turn to look, Sister Margaret is leaning against the frame. Her arms are crossed but her eyes are soft as she observes you. When your gazes meet, she smiles and nods.

“Could you tell me a story?” Matthew asks, his voice stronger. You turn back to him.

“Sure,” you say. You would ask what kind of story - you’ve picked up quite a few over the years - but you don’t want him to strain himself more than he has.

You recount, though your memory is fuzzy, a bedtime story your mother used to tell you about a boy and his dragon; you can never really replicate the gentleness of your mother’s voice but you try.

As the minutes pass, Matthew’s eyes begin fluttering. Then, they close. When your story has reached its end, his breathing is steady and his face, so strained with pain, has relaxed.

Your heart swells knowing that you might have helped him finally get some rest. When his hand falls limp in yours, you squeeze one last time and stand. Sister Margaret is waiting for you and when you approach her, she envelops you in her arms.

“Thank you,” she says, whisper-quiet near your ear, her voice heavy with unshed tears. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me! These first two chapters have been short because I'm still figuring things out, but you can expect each chapter after these introductory ones to be an average of 5,000 words.


	3. Walk with the Wise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all,
> 
> Thank you for reading, and thank you for being patient for this update that's been two months in the making. However, as Daredevil has been axed by Netflix, I will be discontinuing this series. Again, thank you for your support.

**January 2015**

It’s 5:34 on a Friday evening and the sun has already dipped beneath the New York skyline. Seeing the city from up here… it still takes your breath away. To think, you’ve lived here your entire life and there are still places you have yet to see, hidden on the horizon. 

As for where you are now though, well, you can’t complain. The Clear Room is a five-star restaurant that has boasted the patronage of A-list celebrities and political dignitaries. President Ellis himself sat in the corner booth last spring and one of the Avengers (Tony Stark?) caused quite the stir last month when he dropped by for one of the signature cocktails. 

It’s been relatively slow today; you’ve only served six tables in the past four hours. You take a moment to appreciate the warm, mid-century atmosphere that takes so much damn work to maintain. The dim, golden-hued lights, the glass-paned booths, the maple paneling with silver accents. Your manager is even playing The Platters as per your request. 

You’re broken from your reverie by a hand on your shoulder. 

You turn to see your coworker and friend, Joshua, looking down at you with his sad, saucer-sized eyes. 

“Why the puppy eyes?” You ask, ticking an eyebrow. 

“I’m gonna have to take a raincheck for drinks tonight,” he says, frowning. “Danielle has a fever.” 

You try to balance the conflicting emotions of disappointment and relief on your face. 

It’s not that you don’t like Joshua or even that you feel indifferent about him - on the contrary, you can freely admit to yourself that you have a bit of a crush on him - it’s just that after this shift, all you want to do is go home and take a shower. 

“It’s no problem, I hope she feels better.”

“Thanks,” he says with a tight smile as he drops his hand. 

“Hey,” you say, nudging him with your elbow and grinning at him. “You’re a good dad.”

He rolls his eyes and adjusts the tray of drinks in his hand. 

“Yeah, yeah. My ex-wife would say otherwise.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about then,” you say with a coy smile. A long moment ticks by. He’s smiling down at you and you’re looking up at him.

“I was honestly looking forward to catching up,” Josh says quietly. Your heart flutters, pathetically. 

He has the looks to match his (in your unbiased opinion) wonderful personality. He’s tall and broad-shouldered and gorgeous with neat, always-shiny dark hair. He has flawless tan skin characteristic of his Filipino heritage. His eyes are warm and brown, just like… 

No. 

You take a deep breath through your nostrils and smile up at Joshua. 

“Me too,” you say, and to your own ears, your voice sounds far away, almost dreamy. 

“You okay?” He asks quietly. 

You glance down and shrug. 

“Eh, I’ll be fine,” you say as you reapply the mask you let slip. “Anyway, I should probably get back to these tables.”

Joshua looks at you with concern in his eyes. 

“I know I’ve said it a thousand times, but humor me,” he says with a tender smile. “If you ever need to talk, I’m here.” 

You nod and say “okay” just like you have a thousand times before.

After checking to confirm the reservation time, you look at your newly-assigned table. It’s a group of five. You force the corners of your mouth up and stride over. They’re studying the alcohol menu with expressions ranging from complete disinterest to boredom to confusion. 

“Good evening, gentlemen,” you say cheerfully. You turn to the lone woman in the group and bow your head with a smile: “ma’am.” 

You introduce yourself and present each of them with a drink menu and your friendliest smile. Xavier calls it the “gratuity smile”. Smartass.

One of the older men gazes at you with a look in his eyes that every woman knows: like you’re a piece of meat and he’s the carving knife. He’s handsome and well-groomed and certainly rich. Perhaps, one day, that will be enough for you. 

Today is not that day. 

“If your drinks are half as good as you look, I think we’re in for a good time,” he says to you with a well-rehearsed wink. You meet those blue eyes set in pale, pale skin and widen your smile. 

“Thank you, sir,” you reply, still bright even as your insides squirm. 

“Please, call me Parish,” the man says. You nod and pass your gaze over the other four pairs of eyes trained on you, clicking your pen. “Can I start you all off with drinks?” 

You look to the man sitting on your far right: he politely orders a gin and tonic. The next man demands a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, the woman, Riesling. The older man, Parish, orders a whiskey, neat. The last man, clearly the youngest of the five, is still weighing his choices. 

He’s got an interesting look about him: the shoulder-length blonde hair and sideburns are a sharp contrast to the three comb-overs and one very obvious wig. 

“Uh,” he says with a nervous smile. “You got any recommendations?” 

You’re a waitress, not a bartender, but you are good at reading people. 

You hum and tilt your head, considering. His smile melts into something demure.  

The guy seems a bit intimidated, both by the menu and by his company. You imagine that he indulges in craft beer instead of domestic every once in a while but that’s about as elegant as it gets. Having a fancy drink in his hand might make him feel like he belongs. 

You scour your brain for something sweet but with just enough punch...

“I don’t know how you feel about lemon but the Maestro is delicious,” you conclude. 

“I’d go with what the lady says, Franklin,” Parish says, ribbing him and laughing. 

The young guy, Franklin, clears his throat and looks at you thoughtfully. “One Maestro, please,” he says in a cute but terrible English accent. 

The grin that spreads across your face is the first truly genuine reaction you’ve had so far.  

“Of course, sir,” you say. If he was alone, you might parrot back an even worse accent, but that wouldn’t be appropriate now. 

You busy yourself fetching refills and clearing dishes throughout each course. You try to give patrons privacy and usually refrain from eavesdropping, and even then, only to know when you’re needed, like an actor waiting behind the curtain for a line. At first, their conversation is the kind of small talk businessmen always make. The niceties here matter, after all, when money is involved. You assume they’re businessmen, anyway, by the vocabulary: ventures, capital, logistics. 

Franklin is soft-spoken but he hangs onto every word Parish says. 

You’re returning with two orders of creme brulee and one black coffee about an hour later. You just served hors-d'oeuvres to your second-to-last table: a couple on what you presume is their first date. 

You’re still wearing an amused smile at having witnessed the two middle-aged women trying to one-up each other with increasingly raunchy compliments. 

Your stomach plummets when you take in how the atmosphere has changed since you’ve been away: it’s positively icy. Parish has his glass of whiskey in a tight grip, the gruff man strums his fingers on the table, the woman darts her eyes around the room and the bespeckled man is chewing his lip. Franklin, however, looks... calm. You can see the gears turning in his head. Whatever this business is, the young man clearly has a knack for it. 

When you set the desserts down, his reverie is broken and he meets your eyes. After casting a smile your way, he clears his throat and announces, “if I may, I’d like to propose a toast.” Each and every person at that table perks up. 

Franklin looks to Parish, who nods in encouragement. 

“I don’t see why these changes can’t be reconciled. Look: we all want the same thing...” 

He looks to the burly man and tips his (third) cocktail glass. With a disarming smile, he says: “For Mr. Beltran to have the lightest possible sentence. That’s why you chose the greatest firm in the country.” 

Franklin gestures to Parish, “As you know, Mr. Landman isn’t just good at what he does, he’s the  _ best _ . The employees he handpicks - the people who flourish under his leadership - are the best.”

He scoffs and waves his hand dismissively.

“Now I could go over the success rates and all those dry, boring statistics, but I don’t need to. You get it.” 

With a magnetic grin, he raises his glass and says, “to winning.”

For whatever reason, that speech is all it takes to unfreeze the stuffy businessmen (and businesswoman). Even the surly Mr. Beltran cracks a smile.

After exchanging more pleasantries, everyone begins to disperse soon after. 

You are returning with another Maestro when Parish suddenly stands. 

“... went well, Franklin,” you hear him say.  “I have another meeting, but please, feel free to stay and have another drink if you’d like. My tab.” 

Parish is already walking away when Franklin mutters a “thank you, sir”.

 

* * *

 

You’re clearing the table a final time when you see, out of the corner of your eye, Franklin draining his cocktail glass. 

He says your name and you’re genuinely touched that he remembered it. 

“Hey, could you hook me up with another one of those fancy cocktails with the - the…?” 

He scrunches up his boyish face.

“Lemon peel?” You offer. 

“Yep, that’s the one!” He says with an animated snap of his fingers. He points to you with a wide grin and says, “You, madam, are the love of my life, you know that?”

This man’s charm must be infectious because you feel yourself grinning back at him. 

"We'll see about that."

Franklin’s eyes - blue? - widen in genuine surprise. 

"Anyway, let me grab you that Maestro.”

“Thanks,” he says. “I’m Foggy, by the way.”

You raise your brows. “ _ Foggy? _ ”

He grins and picks at his chocolate cake. “Yeah, it’s a nickname my college roommate gave me.  He’s blind so he’s really sensitive to sound. I don’t snore  _ that  _ loud, but anyway,  _ apparently, _ I sounded like a foghorn.”

He waves away that particular story in a gesture you're coming to realize is something he does often.

"So, anyway," Franklin - eh, Foggy - begins, perking back up. "Wanna have a drink with me?"

“ I’m  _ working _ ,” you say with a roll of your eyes. Your smile must betray you though. 

Your shift does end soon. You must say, you’re quite enjoying the banter with this dorky, kind-of-cute, intoxicated guy. 

He waves his hand dismissively. “Are you gonna get sloshed with your old friend Foggy, or are you gonna be a  _ slave to The Man _ ?” 

His eyes widen and he covers his cheeks in a homage to The Scream. You can’t help but laugh as he says “no, no, no,”. 

“Look, when I said ‘slave’, I didn’t mean it like that and, I can’t really tell your ethnicity but - ” 

You hold up your hand to cut him off and try to contain the stupid grin that has returned. “Foggy, stop, you’ve convinced me.” 

He smiles. “So you’ll have a drink with me?”

Before you’re forced to commit to evening plans - you had felt so relieved at the prospect of just going home - a phone buzzes. 

Foggy startles and pats his breast pocket before fishing out a phone. Foggy glances at you - one hand covering his ear and the other gripping his phone - and flashes an apologetic smile.

“Hey, Matt,” you hear him say. “Where are you, man?” 

And just like that, you feel like a 21-year-old again. Just hearing his name - no, not  _ his  _ name. The name of someone else. There are a thousand Matts in New York City; Foggy couldn’t possibly be talking to yours. 

You mentally slap yourself. 

No, not  _ your _ Matt. He’s not  _ your _ Matt. 

You sigh so heavily you’re surprised the weight of your breath doesn’t knock the plates from your hands. 

You’ve been doing so well lately. You haven’t spared a thought for Matthew Murdock since… well, last month, at least. And now your mind is flooded with him. 

“Yeah, but it would’ve gone better if you’d been here,” Foggy says. He sounds, slightly less annoyed than before. 

You wander away to give him a bit of privacy. Besides, the lovebirds at the corner table probably need some attention.

When you return, Foggy is in much better spirits. He’s even grinning again. 

“Actually, it’s probably a good thing you’re not here. The pretty ones always go for you,” you hear him say as you approach the table. He’s very concentrated on his conversation and doesn’t seem to have noticed you yet.

At that moment, you decide to reenter the scene. Foggy fumbles with a goodbye and hangs up. There’s a blush on his cheeks as he smiles at you. He points to his phone. 

“Blind college roommate,” he says by way of explanation. 

A blind guy named Matt… what are the odds? You have a feeling that this is the Big Guy Upstairs playing a game with you. 

“Ah,” you say, mirroring his smile. 

He scratches his ear and avoids your eyes. 

“So,” you begin. “What was the meeting about, if I may ask?”

He sighs and rubs his eyes. “Oh, just a really important client at this firm I'm hoping to get a full-time position with."

You feel your stomach plummet. "So, you're a lawyer?"

The odds of a blind _lawyer_ named Matt... 

“Um, Franklin - ” 

He shakes his head. 

“Foggy - ” He nods in approval. 

“This is a weird question, but…” You wring your hands. 

“The suspense is killing me.”

You smile and take a breath.

“Um, the guy you were talking to on the phone, ‘Matt’,” Foggy is looking at you like you’ve just sprouted a second head. “This is a long-shot, but, um, was that Matt Murdock?”

Foggy just... blinks at you and you feel a heavy dose of Instant Regret flood your veins. Why the hell did you just ask that? 

“You know what?” You say with a shake of your head. 

You avert your eyes. “I’m sorry I asked. That was inappropriate of me.”

After a long pause, he says… “You know Matt?”

You meet his eyes again. 

“I used to,” you reply. “It was a long time ago.”

“Huh,” he says. He’s watching at you so oddly now, as if this is the first time he’s getting a good look at you. 

“Anyway,” you say, slipping back into your professional smile. “Can I get you anything else?”

His smile, meanwhile, has disappeared. It doesn’t seem as if he’s heard you. 

Foggy is gazing at you with what looks like recognition. Which is impossible, of course. He’s never met you.

“Oh,” he says. “Shit.” 

“No, I think I’ll be heading out,” Foggy says, already moving to stand. 

The man you were planning on going for drinks with has been replaced with a man not unlike the other patrons. Well-groomed and cold. You try not to feel hurt by that.

“Foggy?”

He stops in his tracks. 

“Please, don’t tell him you saw me.”

He throws an indescribable look at you over his shoulder. “I won’t.” 


End file.
